


High Up Above

by waferkya



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:11:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ricky drops his phone, his shoulders seem to melt and his mouth hangs slightly open; Juan Carlos rolls his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Up Above

**Author's Note:**

> I think this qualifies for the Magical Healing Cock trope, to some extent.

Ricky drops his phone, his shoulders seem to melt and his mouth hangs slightly open; Juan Carlos rolls his eyes.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” he mumbles dryly. Ricky doesn’t blink, like he’s afraid that if he stops looking for even just a fraction of a second, this will all disappear from under his nose; instead, his eyes grow even bigger.

“Yeah, but I’ve never seen it _like this_ ,” he says, and his voice is a raw, tiny thing; he’s surprised he can actually talk, really, because it feels like every last drop of his blood made a happy dive south, deserting the entire upper half of his body, so kudos to his mouth that’s still working despite that.

Juan Carlos rolls his eyes again, but there’s a faint shadow of pink spreading down his neck and chest. Ricky can see it very clearly, because Juan Carlos is not wearing a shirt. In fact, Juan Carlos is not wearing anything, except for a tight pair of navy blue boxer shorts that go wonderfully with the smooth miles and miles and miles of his tanned skin.

Ricky loves the summer. Seriously. Best thing ever.

“Oh, my God,” Ricky sighs, drinking in the long, muscled legs of his captain—the soft curve of cotton stretched between them—the smooth dip of his hipbones—the lean, bronze expanse of his flat stomach—the hollow where his collarbones meet under his throat—his strong arms, pulled back above his head and, _Christ_ , bound at the wrists, lashed to the bed’s headboard. Ricky clears his throat. “Is this your way of saying ‘sorry I forgot your birthday, Ricky’?”

Juan Carlos, a glorious, unbelievably sweet offer of golden sunkissed skin and long muscles, lifts his head a little and glares.

“I definitely did _not_ forget your birthday,” he says. “I called. I got you a present. _Best thing ever_ , your words, remember?”

Ricky nods, numbly. Maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe he’s hallucinating, and Rudy finally managed to drive him completely, full-on batshit crazy. But then again, why try to wrap his mind around some sort of explanation for this when he can, well, wrap his everything around _that?_ Ricky kicks off his shoes and quite literally jumps on the bed, straddling Juan Carlos’ narrow hips, pausing for barely enough time to tug off his own t-shirt and squirm out of his jeans.

“Hi,” he sighs, dropping his head to press a bruising kiss against Juan Carlos’ pout—which doesn’t stay a pout for long, because Ricky is desperately good at this and he has Juan Carlos’ mouth hot and open under him in a second. He rolls his hips down hard, hungry for more already, and he shivers when Juan Carlos arches up into him right away, gasping against his lips.

“Ricky, just—”

“Shush,” Ricky murmurs, cupping his hands around Juan Carlos’ face and nipping at his pink, soft bottom lip. “Lemme enjoy my birthday present.”

Juan Carlos grumbles something along the lines of _I’m not your birthday present, your birthday was like ten months ago_ , but Ricky doesn’t listen, just shifts down along his neck, scattering soft bites and wet kisses across the flushed skin.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he says, soft like a secret, just moments before wrapping his tongue around the hard tip of Juan Carlos’ nipple, and the laugh that escapes Juan Carlos’ throat a moment later is a bit breathless.

“What, tied up?” he asks, his hips pushing up and bumping into Ricky’s chest. Ricky smiles, sucks on the rosy little button because he likes the way Juan Carlos squirms under him.

“I meant the tan,” he says, kissing his way across Juan Carlos’ chest, hands skimming over his stomach and thighs. “Your nose is pink and the rest of you is like, all golden. You’re pretty.”

Juan Carlos scoffs, half skeptical and half embarrassed to death, but soon the frown melts into a soft, throaty moan, because Ricky’s face is now shoved against his dick. Ricky makes a happy sound, his eyes fluttering closed as he tugs Juan Carlos’ legs a little wider apart. He mouths at him through the tight boxer shorts, smiling when he feels it start filling up.

“Kid,” Juan Carlos mumbles, a little distracted. “’s good to see you.”

Ricky giggles and presses a kiss where he supposes the tip of Juan Carlos’ cock is. Then he’s crawling back up Juan Carlos’ body, his mouth opening, tongue slipping out when he’s still a bit too far; Juan Carlos shifts and tries to meet him halfway, but he’s still tied to the bed—Ricky doesn’t really have enough brain power left to even wonder _why_ the freaking satiny laces, what’s the occasion, and why the fuck are they so painfully _red_ —and Ricky’s breath gets stuck in his chest as he watches Juan Carlos fighting against the restraints a little, his arms tense and his collarbones jutting out so much Ricky’s scared, for a second, that they might break the skin.

They kiss, and it’s slow and soft and terribly wet; Ricky’s hands are sprawled comfortably across Juan Carlos’ chest, for leverage and out of a feverish, stubborn need to never stop touching him—Ricky is too happy like this, too satisfied, and he can’t let go just yet.

He crawls out of his underwear, flings it to the floor without looking and presses himself flush against Juan Carlos, rubbing into him, breaking the kiss because he needs to gasp and even with that, he can’t seem to keep down enough air.

Juan Carlos pulls his legs in a little, spreading them just so Ricky can settle between his knees. Ricky’ hands run over Juan Carlos’ arms, down his sides, tracing the soft bumps of his ribs and pushing, now and then, grabbing and squeezing just hard enough to leave a mark. Juan Carlos bruises awfully easy, but his skin never stays stained for long, and isn’t that just fucking precious; he’ll take everything, eager to wear red blotches in the shape of Ricky’s fingers everywhere on his body, but none of that will stick because Ricky doesn’t get to bite him often enough, not even in the summer, like Pau does.

It’s a reminder of things that Ricky doesn’t want to think about, especially not now that he can slip his fingers under the waistband of Juan Carlos’ boxers and see him bite his lip, arch off the bed a little; Ricky breathes in. He’s grateful for what he gets, and he’s fucking MVP of the temporary fling game.

“I want you,” he mumbles, mouth pressed to Juan Carlos’ pulsepoint. The thinner hairs of Juan Carlos’ beard tickle his lips just a little. “Really, really want you, Juanki.”

Juan Carlos swallows and Ricky feels his throat working. He pushes himself closer, his cock nudging the curl of Juan Carlos’ hipbones.

He decides he can’t stand those boxers anymore, and he pulls them down, Juan Carlos shifting his legs up to help him get rid of them. Ricky sits back on his heels to look on a little longer; he strokes the back of his fingers against the underside of Juan Carlos’ cock, feels it twitch and harden some more in reaction—then Ricky replaces the soft, affectionate brush of his fingers with the wet, shameless touch of his tongue, licking a slow line from Juan Carlos’ balls to the flushed, cherry-red tip. Juan Carlos goes very tense and quiet and, when Ricky looks up and meets his eyes, his expression is carefully blank, with just a touch of interest.

Ricky smiles—he knows Juan Carlos likes him, at least a little, and he really doesn’t see what else he could ask for—and swallows him as deep as he can in one smooth try. Juan Carlos groans, but he stays still, not even lifting his hips to meet the hot wetness of Ricky’s mouth. Ricky moves up slowly, his tongue pressed to the heavy, soap-clean skin, and he hollows his cheeks as he nears the tip in tiny, teasing sucks. He can feel Juan Carlos’ thighs jerk a little as they frame his face.

He hums happily when he’s only holding on the wet tip of Juan Carlos’ cock, and wraps a hand around the base, just weighing down on the tightly stretched skin; Juan Carlos pulls on his restraints hard enough that the entire bed shudders.

Ricky chuckles and kisses the tender inside of his thigh, then presses his mouth to Juan Carlos’ navel, lapping at it just to watch it flush red and hot. His own neglected cock is screaming at him for release, or even just to be stroked with a better angle, because Ricky’s been absent-mindedly rocking his hips and rubbing himself against the blankets, which is not nearly enough.

He sighs, and shifts up, pinning his knees high on either side of Juan Carlos’ body, so that he’s basically sitting in his lap.

“Hi,” he murmurs, leaning down on his hands for a kiss—Juan Carlos licks a bit too eagerly into his mouth, looking for traces of himself on Ricky’s tongue—and he likes the way Juan Carlos minutely shifts, adjusting himself under Ricky until the tip of his cock is brushing against the small of Ricky’s back. Ricky flicks his nipple with a thumb for that. “You’re so good to me.”

“Can’t really say why,” Juan Carlos mumbles back, but there’s no real bite to it; his eyelids are heavy and he can’t seem to tear his eyes from Ricky’s lips, red and swollen and a little shiny from the kiss. “My brain must be very damaged.”

“Mh-hmm,” Ricky agrees, rolling his hips up and back a little. “All those hard fouls, all these years.”

Juan Carlos tilts his head to the side, and he’s about to say something when Ricky’s hand wraps around his cock, thumb running over the tip and then dropping to the sides, smearing down thick, sticky drops of precome and saliva—and then slowly but firmly Ricky lowers himself, shifting and rolling his hips, his eyes pressed closed in concentration, hissing with discomfort until he feels the tip slip in completely.

He breathes out, his abs unclenching and shoulders unknotting; he looks at Juan Carlos through the thick fan of his lashes and the soft, fond expression on his captain’s face catches him by surprise. Ricky huffs a tiny, shy sort of breathy laugh; he sinks some more.

“Jesus,” he pants, and Juan Carlos hums, sounding a little distracted. Ricky is suddenly tired of being in charge, and he blinks quickly, trying to forget for a second that Juan Carlos’ cock is halfway inside him. “Juanki. Can I—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Juan Carlos hisses, his body a single incredibly pretty collection of muscles tense with the effort not to push up and slam into Ricky.

Ricky laughs again. “You didn’t even let me f—”

“Whatever you want, Ricky,” Juan Carlos rumbles, and suddenly he doesn’t sound as desperate, more like very terribly serious, but it’s a stupid thought so Ricky doesn’t think it. Juan Carlos is good, though, way better than Ricky at this, and everything else; so he says it again, softer this time, “Whatever you want.”

Ricky sighs and leans in—he whines when a spark of pain runs up his spine just as a warm punch of pleasure hits him between the eyes because he rubbed himself so very nicely against Juan Carlos’ taut abs—to undo the soft knots at Juan Carlos’ wrists; the moment his hands are free, Juan Carlos pins them to the mattress for leverage and lifts himself up so that he’s sitting.

He cups the sides of Ricky’s face and neck, pulling him in for a kiss that Ricky tries to turn wet and dirty but Juan Carlos stubbornly keeps slow and thorough, which isn’t bad either; and he’s so ridiculously good that, between one gentle sweep of his tongue and one playful nib, Ricky almost blacks out. He opens his eyes again and he’s laying on his back, no idea of when that happened, and there’s two of Juan Carlos’ fingers curling carefully inside him while Juan Carlos’ mouth takes care of his neck.

“Juanki, oh my God, Juanki,” Ricky mumbles, staring at the ceiling through watery eyes; his hands are sinking through Juan Carlos’ soft hair. Ricky sighs as a third finger pushes in, stretching him open wider. “ _Juanki_.”

Juan Carlos looks up at him, his lips curling to a lazy grin.

“What’s the magic word?”

Ricky laughs, still ridiculously out of breath. So much for being an athlete, then. “ _Visca el Barça_?”

“That’ll do,” Juan Carlos mumbles.

“I’m such a good boy,” Ricky sighs happily even as Juan Carlos’ fingers leave him empty and flustered and warm and _dying_ for more. Juan Carlos cocks up an eyebrow.

“You,” he says, and now he has Ricky’s hips in his hands and Ricky doesn’t want him to let go _ever_ , “are everything but a boy.”

_Keep telling yourself that, if it helps you sleep at night_ , Ricky wants to say, but then Juan Carlos is pushing against him, teasing the sensitive skin even further with a thumb because he’s an awful human being and he’s clearly trying to kill Ricky, and it’s not just his ability to put together a coherent sentence that gets brutally shunned out of Ricky’s brains—it’s his insecurities as well, and every last one of his fears; it’s his knee and all the _what if I can’t_ and the homesickness and Rudy’s face. Ricky stops worrying.

He doesn’t have to think anymore as he sinks into the mattress under Juan Carlos and it’s familiar, it’s comforting; Ricky doesn’t feel anything but good, soothed—fixed and glued back together into something whole, as he comes undone completely.


End file.
